Brainstorming about history, politics, literature, religion, and other topics from a 'gypsy' scholar on a wagon hitched to a star.

Sunday, March 25, 2012

The Novelist Carter Kaplan and the Artist Terrance Lindall . . .

I received the same two photos over the past couple of days from both the writerCarter Kaplan and the quasi-surrealist artistTerrance Lindall as the pair of friends engage in sedate if risky domesticated hijinks upon the rooftop of the Williamsburg Art and Historical Center. Note that Carter -- to the left -- is crouched beside his lunch, only inches from the roof's edge, and I get edgy just looking at that. Far safer -- if being atop a roof drinking beer is 'safe' -- sits Terrance, offering just a glimmer of a smile, possibly to offset Carter's roguish grin (better seen in the second photo):

And here's the second photo, presenting Terrance as he lifts his beer to the greater glory of God and Milton and friendship:

After which, Terrance offers these words from Carter as warning against trying this at home . . . but you have to read between the lines:

Great walk home -- crossing the bridge was a "stratospheric" experience, then in Manhattan ducked into a mazy patch of streets and stopped to watch a film crew set up while an actor argued with somebody on his cell phone, then up to 14th where it was my very good fortune to run into an "Occupy" protest -- cops, speakers, organizers, "comedians," cardboard signs, noise, a topless woman, more cops -- then a few blocks away I enjoyed a session of "magazine browse bonanza" at Barnes and Noble before the train ride home. Not used to drinking beer for lunch, I felt absolutely "decadent" as I cruised aimlessly through the lower East side. Square Boy Scout me, I might as well have been on mushrooms. Next time I want to try it on Scotch -- heroically push the Manhattan buzz envelope even further. Thanks, Carter

Well, as I'm mostly Scotch-Irish, maybe I can provide the scotch for Carter next time they meet, if I'm there, unless Terrance puts scotch to that offer . . . which I likely can't follow through on anyway since I'm literally halfway around the world. But no matter, for Terrance is actually arguing against the experience of altered states in quoting Carter, even those due to the effects of weak alcohol. We have to focus on Carter's "Square Boy Scout" line, which in fact describes Terrance to a "T" -- a "T" has two right angles, making "Terrance" all right! He therefore can't approve of things that are all wrong. One simply needs the right hermeneutic to construe his real message in channeling Carter: "Just say no!" Or is that "Just say 'No!'"? The hermeneutic should stop here. No fair construing the message as "Just say 'Know!'" That gets us into the Satanic serpent's territory, but far be it from Terrance, or even Carter, to enter there, where angels fear to tread . . .

By the way, what beer are Terrance and Carter drinking? Maybe if I click on the photos . . .

My experience Wednesday represents the full array of benefits of being a T-total-er. Just two beers, and I was off on a surreal trip that would have given Ken Kesey the heebie-jeebies. I was probably safely below the alcohol blood-level specified for pedestrians by New York City ordinance; nevertheless, had Mayor Bloomberg and Chief Kelly been aware of the semi-hypnogogic state I was in, there could have been trouble. As it was, I saw a side of Manhattan known only to visionaries and wild bohemians—and I lived to tell the tale. I suspect that when I wrote my “thank you” email to Terrance, I was still swayed by the influence of those two beers—either that, or I was still hypnotized by the excitement of the protest (and maybe add to that the even greater excitement of seeing the topless protestor; though, for that matter, she really didn’t leave that much of an impression). One even stranger thing I still can’t resolve, however, is the behavior of one of the “white shirts” from New York’s finest. This particular officer (a lieutenant, I believe) completely ignored the topless protestor (as did the rest of the police—indeed, and so too did everybody present). Oddly enough, however, there was an encounter with one protestor in particular that this lieutenant was very excited about. After the climax in the confrontation with the protestors (the park police, working at the vanguard of the melee, made the protestors pick up their cardboard signs from the sidewalk), one of the protestors approached the police, and, in a display marked by flamboyance of manner and nuanced comedic exaggeration, the fellow upbraided the police in all sorts of coy and amusing ways. His chief message was that we were all of us, police and citizens alike, members of the “99%”. Anyway, after he floated off in a cloud of good will and bonhomie, the lieutenant in question came up to us civilians (we had formed a long perimeter along the sidewalk from which we observed the “conflict”) to show us a picture of the flamboyant protestor he had just moments ago taken with his cellphone—“Look at Boy George!” cried the lieutenant as he walked down the line of observers, shaking his cellphone and pointing at the picture on the screen, meanwhile laughing excitedly—the fellow was as giddy as a schoolgirl—“Look at Boy George! Heh, heh, heh! Look at Boy George! Heh, heh, heh!” Even now--fully in control of my analytical faculties—I am confounded to fully understand the significance of the lieutenant’s excitement and behavior. Goodness! As I sit here writing I can scarcely believe that what I witnessed had actually taken place! Maybe before the protest, the lieutenant had also imbibed a bottle or two of beer—or, and more probably, it’s just the nature of New Yorkers to be weird, and even New York’s finest, in some circumstances, can of a sudden find themselves transported into a sort of shamanistic state, from which cosmic precipice they freely indulge the unchecked enthusiasm and spontaneous acting-out of the most ludicrous fancy that tickles their funny bone. Now, kidding aside, I don’t know if I would go so far as to claim the lieutenant had entered a shamanic state, and was thus animated by some esoteric manifestation of astral ecstasy, but the whole thing sure was goofy. Moreover, just ten minutes later, I had completely forgotten about the lieutenant, how weird his exhibition was, how charming the flamboyant protestor had been—heck, not ten minutes later I had even forgotten the pretty topless protestor! Mysterious quotient of the cosmos! I bet those must have been some really good magazines I was looking at afterwards at Barnes and Noble. But (and confound it!) I can’t for the life of me recall what magazines I had been looking at either!?

About Me

I am a professor at Ewha Womans University, where I teach composition, research writing, and cultural issues, including the occasional graduate seminar on Gnosticism and Johannine theology and the occasional undergraduate course on European history.
My doctorate is in history (U.C. Berkeley), with emphasis on religion and science. My thesis is on John's gospel and Gnosticism.
I also work as one-half of a translating team with my wife, and our most significant translation is Yi Kwang-su's novel The Soil, which was funded by the Literature Translation Institute of Korea.
I'm also an award-winning writer, and I recommend my novella, The Bottomless Bottle of Beer, to anyone interested.
I'm originally from the Arkansas Ozarks, but my academic career -- funded through doctoral and postdoctoral fellowships (e.g., Fulbright, Naumann, Lady Davis) -- has taken me through Texas, California, Switzerland, Germany, Australia, and Israel and has landed me in Seoul, South Korea. I've also traveled to Mexico, visited much of Europe, including Moscow, and touched down briefly in a few East Asian countries.
Hence: "Gypsy Scholar."